


I've Just Seen A Face

by Rexy



Series: Strange Magic Stories [2]
Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, First Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up, Kid!Bog - Freeform, Primroses, Spring, Wedding Fluff, love potion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-24 18:25:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6162584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rexy/pseuds/Rexy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was supposed to be a drabble...ha! (3 chapters later...)</p><p>Bog doesn't strike me as the type to go around love-dusting people willy-nilly. I wanted to take a look at the events that might have led up to That Fateful Day, and also, to explore Bog's evolving feelings toward primroses, springtime, and love. Angst sandwiched by plenty of fluffy goodness :-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is also the title of one of my favorite Beatles songs, I've Just Seen A Face (1965). I imagine it's what Bog is probably humming to himself as he's flying around in a love-struck haze. If you haven't heard it before, I highly recommend checking it out!

The young Bog Prince skimmed along the Border in a haze. As he passed, he brushed the pads of his fingers across the petals of newly-bloomed primroses, and smiled. The loamy scent of rich forest soil and the brightness of the first spring rain mingled in the air. _He loved this time of year._

 

* * *

 

 

Yesterday, his father had taken him to one of the outlying villages. They'd been taking journeys like these more and more often of late, hearing grievances and settling disputes. "Preparation," his father had bellowed, clapping a large hand over Bog's slim shoulders, "fer when you're in charge 'round here, lad." 

 

His father had roused him well before dawn. "Up ye get, lad. We've got kingly duties to attend to," he'd said. Bog had pressed his face briefly into his moss pillow, and muttered a few colorful words before rolling his spindly body out from under the blankets. He shuffled drowsily into the dining hall, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

 

Bog had plopped into the seat next to his father, while his mother pressed a bowl of porridge into his hands and a kiss to the crown of his head. "You two behave today," she teased, pointing between her husband and son. "Now _I'm_ going back to bed, where all the _sane_ folks are at this hour." Before leaving, she leaned over to give her husband a lingering kiss.

 

Bog heard his father laugh salaciously, and mumble something that sounded suspiciously like, "wish I could join ye".

 

"Mom, Da, I'm _right here,"_ he'd groused. His parents had laughed, and, after another brief kiss, Griselda waddled back to bed.

 

"Right, son," the Fen King said soon after, standing up from the table. "Finish yer breakfast, and meet me in the stables. Look sharp, now."

 

Bog had stuffed heaping spoonfuls of viscous porridge into his mouth, nearly choking once or twice. It did not do to keep his Da waiting. Once finished, he buzzed hastily down to the stables, where his father was saddling a dragonfly for his elderly scribe, Corm, who would be coming along to keep records of the cases they settled today.

 

Corm had adjusted thick spectacles over his wrinkled snout, and blinked several times at Bog's approach. "Ah, Your Highness. If you would be so kind as to help me pack my ink and parchment," Corm gestured at a small wooden case with a gnarled and liver-spotted hand, "we can soon be on our way."

 

Bog strapped the case to the saddle while his Da scooped Corm up bodily into his lean arms, and deposited him gently on the dragonfly's back. "Right," the King said, "we're off."

 

The three of them had flown into the small fishing village on the shore of Shadfly Pond, just as the orange light of dawn peeked over the horizon. The rays filtered through the trees and caught upon motes of pollen and dust, making the air shimmer. 

 

The village magistrate, an excitable little goblin by the name of Shrub, had rushed to greet them as they landed. "Your Majesty!" he cried, bowing deeply. "Your Highness!" (another bow).  "And…?" he gestured quizzically at Corm.

 

"Corm," Corm grunted, struggling to dismount the dragonfly. The King lifted him by the scruff of his neck, and set him at his side, keeping a hand at his back to steady the aged goblin.

 

Shrub showed the trio to the center of town, where a makeshift throne had been set up. He fussed and bustled about the throne, asking if it was large enough, comfortable enough, and so on.

 

Bog's father had waved him off as one would a particularly bothersome gnat; only requesting that two additional chairs be provided for Bog and Corm.

 

Shrub had scuttled off to retrieve the chairs while Corm unpacked his case. He pulled out several rolls of crisp parchment, two bottles of ink, and a smaller kit which contained numerous sharpened feather quills. Corm took his time selecting a quill; he had picked up and inspected several before finally settling on one. Bog wasn't sure what distinguished one quill from any other, but he respected the man's expertise.

 

By that time, Shrub had returned. A burly goblin accompanied him, carrying the requested two chairs. They had all settled in, Corm had readied his pen and parchment, and the Fen King had announced that he was prepared to receive supplicants.

 

As the line of petitioners stretched longer, the day that had dawned so beautifully seemed to slow to a snails pace. It wasn't that Bog didn't enjoy listening to his future subjects--he truly did!--it was just that most of the cases seemed to be petty disputes, where one goblin had allegedly stolen another's favorite stick, or something as equally ridiculous.

 

At long last, Bog's father had called for a one hour recess. Shrub quickly summoned a procession of goblins, all of whom bore trays piled high with food, and bottles of elderberry wine for lunch. "Hells, man," the King boomed, clapping Shrub soundly on the back, "ye needn't have gone to so much trouble!"

 

"No trouble at all, Sire," Shrub squeaked. Bog was no stranger to his father's "enthusiastic" pats on the back, but he suspected that the little goblin had been wholly unprepared for such _strong_ display of approval.

 

Bog tucked in with a sense of urgency. He figured that if he ate quick enough, he'd have some time to stretch his wings a bit before the hour-long recess was up.

 

He had finished within mere minutes. "Da," he asked, "can I--"

 

"Yes, yes, boy," his father said, waving him on, "go on before ye die of idleness." As his son flew off, the King turned to Corm and whispered, "Rambunctious lad, that one. Always been a right hellion. Gave 'is mother and I fits when 'e was small."

 

Bog delighted in the effort of flight after so many hours sitting still; the strain and pull of his muscles, the thrumming of his wings. The glint of sunlight on the pond's surface called to him like a beacon, and he soon found himself skirting along the water's edge.

 

As he flew, he happened to glance at a low, moss-covered cliff nearby. What he saw there made his heart skip a beat and stole the very breath from his lungs.

 

A she-goblin, a young lady about his age. Her skin was mottled in a lovely shade of pale green. A kind smile graced her elegant wide lips. She leapt nimbly from the cliff, executing a perfect swan dive into the pond. When she came up again, a squirming minnow was held between her sharp pearly teeth.

 

Bog was awe-struck. He'd never seen a more beautiful creature in his entire life.

 

She emerged slowly from the pond, dragging the minnow behind her. The sunlight glanced over the droplets of water still clinging to her, dazzling Bog.

 

He stared at her gorgeous lips. They were moving. _She's talking to you, stupid! Wake up!_

 

"Wh-what?" he spluttered, "I-I'm sorry, I didn't…didn't catch that."

 

She giggled softly, an utterly enchanting sound. "I said, I haven't seen you before. New around here?"

 

"Uh, no…I'm just, uh…visiting. Today."

 

"Visiting today, huh? Wait…that means…oh my gosh, you're the Prince!" She dropped quickly into a deep curtsy. "I'm so sorry I didn't recognize you at first, Your Highness!"

 

"It's okay! Really!" he said, taking her dainty webbed hands in his, and pulling her to her feet, "And please, call me Bog."

 

She had smiled, and Bog felt his heart squeeze with a beautiful kind of pain, the kind he'd bear gladly if this lovely creature would just keep smiling at him.

 

"Okay then, Bog," she said, "You can call me Naiad."

 

* * *

 

Bog couldn't wait to see his new friend again. He closed his eyes, and he could picture her face as clearly as if she were standing before him. She was so sweet and kind and beautiful _…_

 

 _A friend_ , he thought with a smile. Bog had never had a real friend before. Certainly, he'd spent plenty of time with the children of the nobles in his father's court; but they were civil to him at best and exclusionary at worst. They often made him feel too tall, too sharp, too _different_. Naiad didn't make him feel that way. She made him feel accepted, welcomed even.

 

Bog twirled in lazy circles over the primroses and sighed. He really did love this time of year…and he thought, perhaps, that the new feeling that was blooming bright within his chest might mean that he also loved Naiad.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes on the names:  
> -a Naiad is a water nymph, but it is also the name for the larval stage of a mayfly (or shadfly). I thought it fit nicely as the Goblin Girl's name because it's both pretty and appropriately goblin-y  
> -a corm is the bulb of a plant, like what a tulip grows from.  
> -my version of Bog's dad is The Fen King. "Fen" is the Old English word for a marsh or bog :-) I might eventually get around to drawing a picture of him, but in the meantime, imagine a slightly taller, not-quite-so-thin version of Bog with an awesome beard.
> 
> I'll also be posting this story on my tumblr, larnius-rex@tumblr.com
> 
> Parts 2 & 3 should hopefully be up soon!


	2. Chapter 2

The young Bog King tore towards the Border on wings fueled by fury and shame. He needed something, anything, to distract him from the pain of his aching heart. The soft pink petals of the primroses swayed with the Spring breeze. _Damn them._ They were the cause of this. He sneered with vindictive satisfaction as his claws ripped and shredded them. One by one, the petals fell victim to his wrath. Love was a weakness, and he would _not_ have it corrupting his kingdom.

 

How could love possibly be a good thing when it hurt so much? All it seemed to do was make you vulnerable… It crawled into your soul like a parasite. And when the people you loved inevitably left, taking their love with them, you were left with great big rotted-out holes where they used to be.

 

He had loved his father. So _damn_ much. His Da had been everything Bog was meant to be: a strong ruler, a fair ruler, a wise ruler. He'd been strict, as the father of a future king must inevitably be; but he had also been _his Da_. The man who had who had kissed his leafy brow and tucked him into his bed at night. The man who had held his hands and kept him from falling as he took his first short flight across the floor of the throne room. The man who had always been ready with a sharp grin and a powerful pat on the back. The man who had believed, with a fierce, proud, determined belief, that Bog was destined to be a great King and an even better man.

 

Bog remembered the day he had become king with a nauseating sense of panic and a lingering disbelief. His father had come into his room in the early hours before dawn on that fateful Spring morning. "Bog," he'd said softly, "son, I know we'd planned to spar this afternoon, but I've been called away. Mushrooms spotted a snake near one of the northern villages, and I've got to take some scouts and attend t' the situation. Be back by nightfall, lad. We'll spar then." He had stroked a hand over Bog's head and whispered, "Ah love you, my son," before he'd gone. Bog had replied with a muzzy "Love ye too, Da," and fallen quickly back to sleep.

 

Only a few of the scouts had returned that night, banged up and bloodied. They had been ushered quietly into the throne room, where Bog and his mother had been awaiting his father's return. With a quavering voice, the lead scout had murmured, "The Fen King is dead. Long live the Bog King."

 

Bog didn't remember much of what happened after that, but he did remember how hard he had to try not to vomit, as every goblin--even his weeping mother--got down on their knees before him and cried out, "Long live the King."

 

The next few days had been surreal. Bog sat through both his father's funeral and his own coronation in a miasma of detachment and desolation. The amber scepter they placed in his hands felt cold, and intensely heavy.

 

The noble families had offered little in the way of sympathy, and kept pushing their daughters at him--seeking the power that would come from a royal relative. "A King must have a Queen," they'd say.

 

Most of his advisors seemed eager to manipulate the young monarch; attempting to take advantage of his youth and bereavement. At council meetings, they relentlessly pushed their agendas, and dismissed Bog as "inexperienced" and "addled by grief".

 

His mother, at least, was a comfort; but she was mourning the loss of a husband and mate just as much as Bog was mourning a father.

 

With the edges of the hole his father's death had left in his heart still raw, and finding few people he could lean on, Bog wished for the consolation and companionship of his dearest friend. He loved Naiad. And he was so _sure_ that she loved him too. They wrote each other constantly, though Bog's new kingly responsibilities kept him far too busy for frivolous visits.  

 

So, in the weeks that followed his father's death, compelled by frustration, loneliness, and grief, he'd written to Naiad. He asked if she might be able and willing to move from her small village to the castle, and if he might begin to formally court her. 

 

She had responded only with vague not-quite-answers _. It's okay_ , Bog told himself _, she just needs time to think it over. It **is** a big decision… _

 

He'd written again in a few days, and again, a few days after that. But the more Bog pressed, the less frequently Naiad wrote back.

 

Naiad, he reasoned, probably just needed a little push to realize what she undoubtedly already felt. In an act of desperation, Bog sought out the Sugar Plum Fairy, the maker of Love Potions.

 

The magical being had been all too happy to offer her services--the promise of love, in exchange for a primrose petal.

 

Bog had flown to the village nestled on the banks of Shadfly Pond the first chance he got; a small pink bottle clutched in his trembling hands.  

 

He found Naiad, as he had the day they'd first met, on the small cliff overlooking the water.

 

"Bog," she'd said, her voice wavering ever so slightly, "I…I'm glad you came. I didn't know how to say it in writing, and you deserve to hear it face to face…Bog, I--"

 

"Wait, Naiad," Bog cut her off, fumbling with the potion he held behind his back, "b-before you say anything…" he thumbed the stopper off, and it hit the ground with a small muted thump. "I've just got to…to…" he took a deep breath, and cast the potion at the girl he loved.

 

Naiad had taken a step back as the cloud of magic hit her. She'd rubbed the pink sparkles from her eyes, then opened them slowly. She seemed a bit dazed, like she wasn't entirely sure what had just occurred, and she took a moment to get her bearings.

 

Her expression began to shift. A look of horror dawned on her face, and she stumbled back a few paces.

 

Bog had tried to take a tentative step towards her then, his hands outstretched pleadingly.

 

She had screamed.

 

"N-Naiad, wait!" he'd cried, "I'm sorry! I--" Bog reached out to try and soothe her, but she shrank back in fear.

 

"Don’t touch me," she had hissed, " _please_ …"

 

"I…I just…" he'd stammered.

 

Naiad had shaken her head, then turned and ran.

 

Bog had stood there in shock for what felt like an eternity. _What just happened??_ he'd wondered.

 

His eyes had eventually drifted to the innocuous-looking bottle still clasped tightly in his hand.

 

An anger, the likes of which he'd never felt before, began to bubble up within him. It'd roared in his ears and roiled in his gut, a horrid mixture of rage, self-loathing, and humiliation.  Bog threw the potion to the ground, shattering it. He'd watched, seething, as the tiny pink sparks had danced and faded. And then, once he was sure the accursed substance was gone, he had taken off, making for the Border.

 

* * *

 

Now, having slashed every petal into tiny shreds, his anger utterly spent, Bog was left feeling hollow--empty of all but his heartache.

 

How could he have been so foolish? How could he have thought himself worthy of her love? It was actually laughable--the most beautiful creature in the Forest, in love with _him_? He who had always been too scrawny, too strange, too _hideous…_

 

He would never forget how her face had grown fearful, terrified at the sight of him; how she had scorned his touch before she ran.

 

The fresh new blooms and warm rains of Spring could hold no joy for Bog now. In fact, he _hated_ this time of year.

 

Surrounded by the ruined remains of the primrose petals and their swaying, barren stalks, Bog fell to his knees and wept.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this was angsty. I think it might be the most angsty thing I've ever written. Bear with me, folks, happy Butterfly Bog fluff in the next chapter, I promise!
> 
> Let me know what you thought!


End file.
